


Impressions

by Tahlruil



Series: The Weight of the World [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Language, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-31 18:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6482746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tahlruil/pseuds/Tahlruil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First impressions never give the whole story, and second impressions last a lifetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seeing Alysia

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write Jarod Hawke and Alysia Trevelyan meeting, because they are my current obsession. I have a problem.
> 
> Some warnings before I begin:
> 
> Despite my rather 'meh' feelings toward them personally, there's a bit of Leliana and Josephine hate in this fic, and in this headcanon in general. If you are especially attached to them, this may not be the story for you.
> 
> Also, Jarod Hawke likes to swear. A lot. It gives him a happy. So there's quite a bit of adult language whenever I write from his perspective.
> 
>  
> 
> And a disclaimer I almost never remember to give: I do not own any part of the Dragon Age franchise. If I did, Fenders would be canon.

It shouldn’t be this easy.

A few coins to grease a palm and a guard that looked the other way at just the right moment. Add a thick cloak and hood, a walking stick and a patently fake limp – Maker, he was bad at this – and he might as well have been invisible as he moved through Skyhold. Even if Varric had been the one to arrange it all, even if the dwarf was trusted by the Inquisition, it shouldn’t be this Blighted easy. Not after all he’d heard of Haven’s demise at the hand of a creature that should be dead. No, not should be. Maker’s tears, he _was_ dead.

 _Fucking_ Corypheus.

They’d checked his corpse twice before combing through the area for any additional dangers or torn trousers to sell. Then, because Fenris was a paranoid bastard, they’d checked a third time. Halfway to the surface, the ex-slave got twitchy, so they’d trudged back and checked _again_. When they got there and the darkspawn menace was still very clearly a dead body, they’d all forced the broody elf to pay for several rounds at the Hanged Man when they finally made it back to Kirkwall.

Andraste’s tits, Fenris was going to be impossible when he found out that the damned dead darkspawn – possibly a Tevinter Magister, at that – was actually alive, killing things and taming Archdemons so he could kill even more things. The elf wouldn’t say anything, or even really gloat, but he would wear that insufferable smirk that said ‘I told you so’. A lot. So much smirking. Fuck.

The cap on the whole thing was that now, because of the flaming bastard that should be dead, Jarod Hawke felt obligated to step out of the shadows. After Anders had blown up the whole fucking Chantry and shit went even further south after that, the idiot mage had no choice but to run. Even if they weren’t together any more, Hawke had run with him – the teeniest part of him thought maybe Anders had been right. Maybe. But only a little. Not with the explosive bit, as Jarod generally frowned on destroying buildings in a fiery blast, but the other stuff. The mage rights stuff. There, Anders had a few good points.

They’d ended up parting ways soon after fleeing, however, when Fenris of all people tracked them down. Informing Hawke that he would take control of guarding and caring for ‘his’ Mage, he’d freed Jarod of that responsibility. He’d thought _that_ relationship doomed and more than a little twisted, but they seemed happy enough when he made his rare visits. Such visits to his friends were the only times he had to be ‘Hawke’; the rest of the time, he was as good as a ghost.

He _liked_ it that way, blast it.

But now here he was, in the ass-end of fucking _nowhere_ , surrounded by far more people than he would have liked and worrying about their safety and lax security measures. They’d just barely survived the assault on Haven; this place should be locked up tighter than a Circle while they recovered. Instead, they went blithely along, accepting strangers into their ranks with scarcely a question. Jarod suspected it was Varric’s love of the dramatic that had him sneaking about rather than any true need. If he’d just walked in, no one would have blinked an eye.

If he decided to stay with the Inquisition, he’d have to speak with Cullen about that. Surely the Commander of the illustrious Inquisition wasn’t happy with the open-door policy Skyhold had adopted. 

That was something he still wasn’t sure of, however. A huge part of him longed to give what information he could, then vanish into the wind. Getting pulled back into the real world was not high on his list of priorities, and he had more pressing things to worry about – namely Carver. His infuriating brother had disappeared even more neatly than Jarod could manage. With worrisome rumors about the Wardens circulating, he’d asked Aveline to find his little brother and take him away. The Guard Captain had tried, but… Carver was already gone.

 _That’s_ where his energy should be focused, not on holding the hand of some stuck-up brat who thought she could save the world. ‘Herald of Andraste’ indeed. Sure, she’d managed to close the hole in the sky, but he thought that had more to do with the Templars she’d recruited to her side. And why had a _mage_ asked the bloody Templars for help and not the Mage Rebellion? Now her people – their people – were tools for Corypheus. If anyone had asked him which group to sacrifice, he’d have happily sent the Blighted Templars marching to their doom. Not the bloody Herald of fucking Andraste. She had other ideas.

What Varric saw in her, he didn’t understand.

But the dwarf had been pushing even before Haven went up in flames. The whole ‘stay away and I’ll keep your secret’ line had turned into ‘I think you two would get along, so come help us save the world’. When he’d heard about Haven and the letters had stopped coming, Jarod cursed himself for a fool. He could have helped, could have stopped the enemy and saved his friend… or at least seen him one last time. Receiving a letter from Varric had him so relieved he nearly shed a tear, until he read the contents. Then he'd shredded the letter instead. The enemy was Corypheus, and now Hawke _had_ to be involved. On Varric’s insistence, that involvement couldn’t be limited to a letter or two that delivered pertinent information.

So he was here, walking through one of Skyhold’s lower courtyards, and he couldn’t say his sentiments had changed. Varric’s newest friend was not only the Herald of Andraste, no. Now she’d also come back from the bloody dead. Did the woman have no shame? Her title was on everyone’s lips, and many venerated her so much that they practically worshiped her. Allowing that kind of nonsense didn’t bode well for her character. No matter what the dwarf thought, what he saw in her, Jarod wasn’t impressed. He would tell her what he knew about Corypheus, mention Stroud’s name, then get back to his own life. A simple, professional relationship where he didn’t have to spend a moment more than necessary with a vain, narcissistic-

Something was happening, and it brought his attention back to the world around him. He hadn’t seen Cullen since everything in Kirkwall had gone tits up, but the man was unmistakable. The Commander of the Inquisition looked more enthused than Jarod had ever seen him, and he was gathering up everyone who could walk into a large throng. Even some of the less wounded were put on stretchers or offered the support of someone more able-bodied so they could attend… whatever was going on. A memorial, perhaps? But no – the mood would be far more somber if that was it. It wouldn’t feel like they were off to a bloody fair. 

Letting the crowd carry him, Jarod soon found himself standing in front of a rather impressive set of stairs – impressive because of their lack of rubble more than anything else, really. As Cullen paced before one of the companies that comprised the Inquisition’s forces, he looked as nervous and giddy as someone about to visit a whorehouse for the first time. This was obviously for the blasted Herald, some sort of demonstration that would bolster her already massive ego. How she had Varric so completely fooled and willing to believe in her goodness was beyond him.

“I see you came after all. I wasn’t sure, with all your pissing and moaning.”

“You asked me to, Varric. Of course I came.”

The dwarf had sidled up to him, now standing with his arms crossed and his attention fixed on the stairs. Hearing Jarod’s reply, he snorted and delivered a light kick to his ankle. “I’ve been asking for months now. I was beginning to doubt even Corypheus would be enough to bring you back to the world.”

“Hm. Where’s Bianca?”

“In my room. She didn’t want to see this.”

“What, all the pandering to a woman who will probably become a tyrant didn’t appeal to her?”

“Think what you want, Hawke.” Jarod quickly scanned the crowd to see if anyone had heard Varric murmur his name; thankfully, they all seemed wrapped up in this euphoric moment. Maker, this woman had them all under her spell. “That’s what you always do. _I_ think you’ll change your tune quick enough. I don’t need to beat you about the head with the truth.”

“You wouldn’t know the truth from a good story if it came up and introduced itself.”

“Stories _are_ a kind of truth, my friend. Sometimes the most important truths are hiding in them, where no one will think to look.”

“Yes, you belong to a noble profession. How could I have ever thought you just liked to hear the sound of your own voice? Also, what exactly is going on here?”

“Something as inevitable as it is terrible.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Just be quiet and watch the show.”

Whatever reply Jarod might have made was silenced by the appearance of Leliana, who was climbing those rubble-free stairs with a sword in hand. Even as a mage and from a distance, he could see it was more ceremonial than anything; any purpose it served was not performed on the battlefield. He could also see that Leliana probably hadn’t gotten any cheerier since their last meeting. Still, a hush fell over the crowd at her arrival, and Cullen even stopped pacing and turned to watch her instead. Jarod couldn’t see his face, but his stance was proud – this moment clearly meant a lot to the man. Maker’s Blood, what was going on?

Then he saw _her_.

He’d known a bit about her, of course; enough to form an opinion anyway. But seeing her side-by-side with a woman he could only assume was the infamous Cassandra Pentaghast, he was struck by several things that had him and his opinion reeling. The first thing he noticed was that she had horrible taste in clothing; the second was that the awful beige outfit hugged her curvy figure well enough that it almost didn’t matter. Though her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight braid, he could still note the fascinating color – strawberry blond with hints of gold and copper that flashed in the sun. Noticing _that_ drew his attention to her face, eyes directed there by two loose locks that framed it perfectly. 

Maker’s breath, she was so _young_. Around the same age as he’d been when he first arrived in Kirkwall; definitely no older than twenty-four. There was also the look that he associated with mages newly out of the Circle… which he realized she was. It was all in the wide-eyed innocence that was palpable as they discovered the ‘real’ world, balanced by the shadows put in their eyes by the one they knew. She’d been in the Circle at Ostwick, he remembered – one of the only ones still functioning after the Mage Rebellion. The Conclave was probably the first time she’d left that Circle since she was a child, and she’d gotten dragged into this madness. The girl had the weight of the world on her shoulders through no choice of her own, and part of him thought he’d judged her too harshly, too quickly.

Another part of him was sure that this was how she got people to follow her and sing her praises. Playing the young, innocent Circle mage would rally people behind her that otherwise would never support someone with magic. Those who didn't hate mages on sight could easily be swayed by a 'poor me' story, becoming sympathetic and easy to recruit. She could simply be canny beyond her years.

If that was the case, the exhaustion she wore was another layer of the deception. He could see it as she came closer to the stairs, even as he noted her nervous evaluation of the whispering crowd before her. The Herald was paler than he thought she should be, and there were signs of strain around her mouth. Dark circles under her eyes spoke of sleepless nights and long days, while her eyes themselves looked bloodshot. “She scouted the path here right after Haven.” Varric told him in a soft aside. “Before she was even fully healed, she was trudging through snow. Took almost a week to get here.” A _week_ leading her people through the cold and snow with no real shelter? That didn't sound like any kind of fun. Snow stopped being pretty very quickly, and being cold lost it's charm even quicker. “Now she spends her time visiting wounded soldiers and doing whatever scut work she can beg from the workers instead of resting.”

“You’re trying to soften me, and you’re not being very subtle about it.”

“If I were subtle with you, you’d never have gotten the coin together to go to the Deep Roads. You’d still be scraping by in Lowtown.”

“Pity you _weren’t_ subtle. The Chantry there might still be standing.”

“Point.”

“I think that puts me in the lead, doesn’t it?”

“No. That time we visited Antiva to see the Rivaini put you twenty points down, remember?”

“You said you weren’t counting that.”

“I lied. That’s my prerogative as a storyteller.”

As they talked softly to each other, the Seeker was speaking to the Herald, probably telling her what in the holy Maker’s name they were doing out here. The two women were climbing the stairs toward Leliana and that Blighted sword, and suddenly, Jarod knew what this was. “They’re making her-“

“Yes.”

Suddenly, Cassandra’s voice was loud, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd as she and the Herald closed in on Leliana. “The Inquisition requires a leader – the one who has _already_ been leading it.” The Seeker sounded so fucking pleased with herself, like handing the Inquisition over was a gift, and one that the Herald should be grateful for, instead of the terrible burden that it was. He couldn’t see the Herald’s face just then, but he _did_ see the way she recoiled instantly, actually backing down two steps before she managed to catch herself. Her shoulders were hitched up in a defensive way, tension written in every line of her body as she faced down the two women before her. Had she not known of their plan? Her reaction told him that she was genuinely unnerved and taken aback by the proceedings. The Seeker looked surprised, while Leliana wore a steely expression; Jarod had the sinking feeling that the Herald would not be allowed to refuse this ‘honor’. 

Unable to watch as the Seeker began to speak in a low tone to the woman they wanted to make Inquisitor, he turned his attention to the crowd. Most of them were so swept away by the momentous occasion that they didn’t seem to notice the Herald clearly wanted no part in this. There were a few concerned faces he could pick out of the crowd – one of those a _Qunari_ because _of course_ the Blighted Herald could charm one into following her even if she was Bas Saarebas – but most wore looks of anticipation, hope and faith. 

Cullen, however, looked shaken and unsure; had the Commander thought the Herald knew and was willing? The man who had once been a Templar knew that eyes were on him so he recovered quickly, but now he seemed more resigned than giddy. At his side was a woman with an exceptionally shiny shirt, a woman he could only assume was in charge of the Herald’s current and terrible wardrobe. Though her expression was one of joy, her eyes were as hard as Leliana’s, and he knew for certain that the Herald would be called ‘Inquisitor’ before the day was over.

Maker, she needed new friends.

The arm that the Seeker put around the Herald’s back looked supportive, but Jarod had a feeling she was actually dragging the other woman forward, toward the title and responsibility she didn’t want. The man was reminded powerfully, viscerally of the night his life changed forever. All he’d really wanted to do was keep his friends safe; if that meant dueling the Arishok in full view of every Blighted noble in Kirkwall, then fine. After that dazzling display of magic, he’d expected to be thrown into the Circle. Instead, he’d been named Champion. Suddenly, he was responsible for everything from chasing down smugglers to keeping the peace between Meredith and Orsino. The look of cruelty on the Knight-Commander’s face when she named him thus now made sense; it was a fate far worse than anything she could do to him, barring the brand of Tranquility. He hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t asked for it, but the decision – and all its consequences – was made without him.

Jarod wanted her to put up a fight, lash out and refuse the ‘honor’ being thrust on her. If she said no loud enough, they would have to hear her. Fuck, if she said no and they _wouldn’t_ hear her, then he’d make them. If he’d known then what he knew now, he would've told Meredith exactly what she could do with that Blighted title, and he’d have left Kirkwall to fend for itself. All it had ever done was bring him grief, and now… now he was watching the same thing happen to someone else.

_Just say no… say no and I’ll kill everyone here if I have to… say no and I’ll save you._

“Having flashbacks, Hawke?”

“Shut _up_ Varric.”

Maybe if she’d known he was there, she wouldn’t have let them force it on her. Maybe if he’d joined the blasted Inquisition the first time Varric asked, he could have stopped this madness. If she knew he was at her back and willing to shed blood to keep this from happening, she might have told them all to go to the Deep Roads and walked away.

Instead, she took hold of the Blighted sword.

When she turned to face the crowd, the Herald looked absolutely bewildered, like she didn’t even know which way was up. Her eyes scanned the crowd, who were all looking at her like she was a miracle come to life, but he wasn’t sure she was really seeing them. For long moments, she stood woodenly, the sword held awkwardly in front of her – Maker’s tears, why a _sword_? She didn’t know how to hold one, and trying made her seem like a silly child; if they’d given her a staff, maybe she could have pulled this off the way they wanted her to.

There were no speeches in the Herald that day as she stood there in front of the eerily silent crowd. Later, when stories were told, the awkwardness would be left out. They would gloss over the way the Herald said absolutely nothing; they would speak of a moment so solemn and holy that no words were needed. They wouldn’t mention the way the Seeker was the one to move the ceremony forward, or that shiny-shirt had informed everyone who their new Inquisitor would be before the Herald could even accept.

They wouldn’t mention the hint of regret in the Commander's eyes as he rallied the company he’d brought to bear witness to the event. All of them wore marks of battle – two were in stretchers. They were men and women who had earned the right to be there by bleeding for the cause, now swearing their lives to an Inquisitor that wished she was somewhere else. When they roared along with the crowd their agreement to Cullen's words – they would follow, fight and triumph – all he could hear was their eagerness to fight, kill and die _for her_. She held every one of their lives in her hands, and the lives of every soldier not present. She was responsible for a hold full of people, responsible for everyone who would flock to her banner; she was responsible for the whole fucking world, and they’d never even asked if she wanted it.

Watching as Leliana took hold of the Herald… no, the _Inquisitor’s_ arm and ‘helped’ her raise the sword to the sky in ‘triumph’, he knew that he would stay. He wouldn’t get too involved, because he knew how that always turned out in the end; Kirkwall had taught him well. But he would stay and give her the information she needed on Corypheus face-to-face, because she deserved at least that much respect. He would stay to let her know that the Champion of Kirkwall was behind her. Even though they’d likely never speak except in a professional capacity, he hoped she would know that he stayed because he _understood_ what had had just happened to her.

The air was still festive as people began to stream out of the courtyard, headed off to wherever the fuck these people went to have a good time. They’d get drunk and celebrate their new leader, never caring a bit that the object of their adoration now stood at the top of the stairs, looking lost, vulnerable, and so terribly, terribly young. His fists clenched tightly, and he was filled with the urge to hit someone, anyone… everyone. He also wanted to get very, very drunk, but in his current mood he’d start flinging Stone Fists at anyone who looked at him wrong, which was not a good way to make friends in new places. Except Antiva, of course.

He didn’t realize that Cullen had come to stand at Varric’s other side until the former Knight-Captain spoke. “Maker, I thought she wanted… I thought she knew… what have we done? What have _I_ done?”

“Easy, Curly. I’m guessing Ruffles and Nightingale forgot to mention the Inquisitor didn’t know that she was about to receive the title. This isn't your fault, not entirely.”

“That doesn’t matter. I should have sought her out, asked her… but there was so little time, and I thought… Maker. We’re going to destroy her.”

“That’s why this is going to be a tragedy. Even if she doesn’t die-“

“She’s not going to die.” Jarod wasn’t the only one surprised to hear his own voice. Cullen started, then looked over to peer under his hood, and recognition dawned on his face.

“Fine, Hawke. When she doesn’t die, the ending still won’t be happy. No way this doesn’t end bad for our Inquisitor.”

‘Our Inquisitor’. Already, the woman was disappearing beneath the weight of the title – what little of her was left after that ‘Herald’ nonsense, anyway. Suddenly, he wondered if she’d ever been the one to claim that title at all. How much of her current predicament was the fault of her advisors, the people she should have been able to trust? If the world didn’t end, would history even remember her as anything but the Herald-turned-Inquisitor?

“What’s her name?” He hadn't cared enough to learn it before, but he needed to know it now. If no one else remembered, he would. He’d write his own book about her, and he’d use her name on every Blighted page.

“Alysia.” Jarod had expected Varric to answer, but it was Cullen who spoke the word. “Her name is Alysia Trevelyan.”

The Champion of Kirkwall nodded, his eyes focused on the young woman who still didn’t quite know what to do with the ridiculous sword she held; she didn’t even seem to know what to do with herself. If no one else remembered her name, he would. Even if he didn’t want to befriend her, he would make sure she didn’t go down in history as just a title. To him, she would be a woman – distant, but still flesh and blood, with a name and hopes and fears.

And even if no one else did, he promised himself that when he looked at her, he would see Alysia.


	2. Knowing Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting your idol doesn't always go the way you imagine, or in which Alysia fangirls just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno. I just like the idea of Alysia having a huge buildup of Hawke in her mind, only to realize that - like her - he's a person, not just a figure out of legend.

‘Inquisitor’. Would there ever be a time when she got used to hearing that word on everyone’s lips? Would it ever feel like they were talking to her and not someone more deserving? Would it ever stop making her shudder when she remembered that she had in fact been granted the title?

Would it ever _stop_?

It had been four days since she’d been forced to accept the mantle, and it had gotten no easier. The explanation she’d gotten from Leliana and Josephine should have eased some of her uncertainty; they were right, after all. If someone else had been named Inquisitor and she’d remained the Herald of Andraste, it would have split their ranks. If she and this possible other ever disagreed, there would be dissension and arguing, and that would weaken their cause. Beyond that, so many people already respected and followed her as the Herald – they would now dedicate themselves to the Inquisition, and more would flock to their banner. All of it made sense, and she did genuinely understand the ‘why’ of it, but still… she wished they could have had the discussion _before_ they’d handed her that sword. Cullen could have shown her how to hold it so she didn’t look like a complete dolt.

But they hadn’t, and she _had_ looked like a dolt. She’d seen the disappointment in their eyes from the moment she’d backed away from the honor. Alysia had been a failure ever since the day magic had woken in her veins – she wished she could have broken the streak four days ago. At least it was a familiar state of being, comfortable in its _dis_ comfort. Her inability to meet the expectations of the people most important to her felt like the only stable thing left in her world. And on the bright side, maybe people would finally stop calling her the Herald; it had always felt so _wrong_ to bear that title, like it was an affront to the Maker and his bride. She had no claims to holiness, and allowing people to think she did… well. Josie had thought it best, and the ambassador was far more knowledgeable in such matters. 

Inquisitor was better, even if she could feel the weight of a thousand lives – and deaths – resting on her shoulders. At least she hopefully wouldn’t have to stammer and bluster her way through any more conversations where people asked if Andraste had really led her out of the Fade. She’d hated when the topic came up, partly because she was a terrible liar, and she knew she’d never convinced anyone to follow her because of the words coming out of her mouth. It was the cleverness of her advisors that had let the story take root and thrive among the people.

Maker, she felt like a sham. Part of her was waiting – would always be waiting – for someone to realize how ill-suited she was for this. They’d relieve her of her duties and give them to someone better, and she could follow the new Inquisitor instead of being followed. With the whole world gone mad, however, the chances of that wonderful, blessed event happening were getting slimmer every day.

Thankfully, there were still some things to look forward to. The cool, crisp air that surrounded Skyhold, for example, or visiting the nice young man who’d replaced Threnn. He was a bit nervous and unsure, but she could relate to that – besides, the previous quartermaster had terrified her. She liked that there was a never-ending maze of corridors and out of the way places to discover; an endless amount of nooks and crannies where she could get ‘lost’ for a few hours if she needed. Alysia _loved_ the impressive wall that surrounded her hold, right down to the rubble littering the walkways and the big hole that made walking the entire length impossible. By the Lady, she just loved the keep Solas had helped her find; it was hers. In an odd way, she felt like the keep _was_ her, at least metaphorically. Crumbling and in desperate need of a remodel, Skyhold still wasn’t hopeless. If she could guide the reconstruction and turn this place into something great, maybe there was hope for her too. If Skyhold could rise to the occasion, there was no reason to think she couldn’t do the same.

All those things were wonderful, and along with the rather strange group of friends she found herself surrounded by, they kept her going. None of them, however, accounted for why she was sneaking along the wall, moving as stealthily as possible with excitement surging through her.

Hawke was coming. No, Hawke was _here_.

Varric hadn’t openly said that was who he was inviting to Skyhold, probably afraid of Cassandra’s wrath. With good reason too, because the woman could be a terror; Alysia wanted to be her when she grew up. The hints he’d dropped two days ago, however, had led to only one conclusion: Jarod Hawke was coming, and she was going to get to meet him. Maker, that set butterflies to fluttering in her stomach, and a part of her – a very embarrassing and secret part – wanted to squeal. The man was a genuine hero, at least to her way of thinking. Secrets were hard to keep in the Circle, and even when Meredith locked down the Gallows word had come to the mages at Ostwick about a young man who dared to stand against some of the injustices the Knight-Commander perpetrated in their sister Circle. A man no one quite dared to call a mage out loud; not until he’d been named Champion and was largely untouchable, at least. Then the whispers grew louder, and the whole of her Circle was watching Kirkwall with baited breath, wondering if the Fereldan apostate could do what no one else seemed willing to.

By the time the Chantry blew up, she and many others her age were absolutely fascinated by him. Hawke was a figure of myth and legend, a refugee and apostate who had won respect and admiration from a city that was terrified of both. Half of her friends were in love with him, and spent their time dreaming that he would travel to Ostwick for some undefined reason and sweep them off their feet and carry them away to a life beyond the Circle. Silly dreams, but she could hardly fault them, not when she was just as taken with the man… just in a different way. She harbored no dreams of love, but she longed to meet him, to speak with him. Alysia wanted to ask him about… about _everything_ , really. It wouldn’t be polite to pester him endlessly, so she hadn’t brought the notes she’d written down the night before with all her questions.

She’d read Varric’s ‘Tale of the Champion’ an embarrassing number of times, had listened to every rumor with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. Hawke was everything a mage could want to be, and secure in his own power despite never going through a Harrowing. He didn’t need the Circle to make him strong, and he didn’t need the Templars to keep him from falling to demons. Maker’s breath, he was a beacon of hope, a reason to believe that Circles weren’t the only way. He’d made mistakes, and the whole Chantry blowing up aspect of the tale overshadowed some of the good he’d done, but… If Alysia couldn’t be Cassandra when she grew up, she wanted to be Hawke.

In her head, Hawke was at least six feet tall and stood with the easy confidence she’d always wished she could manage. The way he stood would let people know that he was cowed by no one. She could almost see the way he grinned, thumbing his nose at danger – that thumb was often covered in the blood of his enemies, leaving a streak that Varric had described vividly. He would be handsome, she supposed, but that didn’t really matter; it was unimportant to her image of him. Much more critical was the aura that would surround him. Dangerous when the moment called for it, warm and welcoming when he was among friends, and always filled with the crackling awareness of magic. Just thinking about it all sent a tingle shooting through her whole body.

She was going to _meet_ Hawke.

Waiting until he arrived at Skyhold had been a test of patience; since Varric had told her two days ago that his friend had agreed to come, she’d gotten even less sleep than she had been since Haven. At least the empty hours in bed making the attempt had been full of eagerness instead of regret and fear. Half an hour ago the dwarf had finally summoned her to the wall, and she’d very nearly _swooned_. After taking some time to compose herself, Alysia dashed off, so excited she could hardly stand it. For the first time in a long time, she felt… happy.

So of course, it hadn’t lasted long. During the climb up the stairs, nerves and doubts had set in. What if he didn’t like her? What if he didn’t like that Varric liked her? Sweet Maker, what if he was so disappointed by what he saw in her that he took the reins of the Inquisition? If anyone else did that, it would be a blessing, but from him… from him it would be a blow she’d never recover from. If Hawke realized that she couldn’t do this, could barely manage to _pretend_ she could do this, he’d be disgusted by her. The man who’d changed the world wouldn’t look kindly on a failure like her.

The realization hit her hard, and she’d sat down right in the middle of the stairway, looking out across the garden courtyard without really seeing it. Blessed Andraste, this was a terrible idea. She should have thought this through, asked Varric to have Hawke write a letter instead; she should have spent the past few days working on perfecting the calm, serene mask she was trying to adopt to fool the world. This moment was a dream come true, but it could very well turn into a nightmare.

Despite all that, she knew she couldn’t just sit there on the stairs all day – truly, she did. So after a few minutes of cursing her own stupidity, she forced herself to stand and finish the climb. On the way, she’d been struck by a grand idea; if she approached quietly enough, she could get a look at him before he saw her. If she did _that_ , then she could have her awestruck moment without fear that he was judging her. If she came at the part of the wall where he and Varric waited from the right angle, she’d be able to hide behind and peek around a corner. 

Momentous moment saved.

That was what had her sneaking about her own battlements like she was a thief. She was doing well too, in her own personal opinion – maybe later, Leliana could give her some pointers so she could be extra sneaky. That way, the Inquisitor could creep in and out of situations, only being on the scene when absolutely necessary; the perfect solution to all her problems. When she finally, _finally_ reached the proper corner, she crouched down and came to a stop, pressing her hands against the stone in front of her. Was this really going to happen? Was she really going to get to see and then meet her hero? His inevitable disappointment in her aside, seeing him was definitely one of the best moments in her life. Leaning her forehead against the wall as well, she took a deep breath, trying to center herself. Then, being very sneaky about it, she inched toward the edge of the corner, trying her absolute best to get a glance of the man before Varric noticed her – Varric always noticed her, _especially_ when she was trying to hide. 

More and more of the space before her came into her vision, and she felt those butterflies in her stomach again. This was it. This was- Wait. There was no one there! Frowning, she heard herself let out a huff of irritation, smacking one fist against the wall. Was Varric teasing her? Was this some sort of test, or… or… blast it all, where was Hawke?

“Who are we looking for?” The voice came suddenly, out of nowhere – well, not exactly nowhere. Warm breath was hitting her ear, which meant the man the voice belonged to was _right behind her_. It would have been a nice voice, all low smooth and wonderful, except that it was right there, and Maker someone had not only snuck up on her, but they’d seen her trying to sneak as well!

Gasping, Alysia jerked away from the man and his voice and his breath, trying to turn to face him at the same time… and ended up flat on her backside, gaping up at whoever it was. Her eyes felt huge in her face, and she knew her mouth was hanging open; her breath was coming faster than usual, and Maker’s mercy, she looked like a fool. Again.

The man who’d startled her so was crouching down in front of her, his head cocked to one side as he grinned. That grin was a lethal weapon, she thought in a daze, her eyes going even wider. It wasn’t fair that he wore it so effortlessly, like it cost him nothing at all to give. His skin was tan, so he was probably a recent arrival to Skyhold, coming from one of the warmer places in Thedas. A place as warm as his eyes – amber and full of gentle laughter at her expense, they were his second best feature. That grin definitely still held first place, especially since it was framed by a dark, well-kept beard. His hair was the same shade of black, and he kept it fairly short; it was slightly mussed, like it started out in perfect order but he kept running his hands through it throughout the day. As her eyes moved from his face to take in the rest of him, she saw that he was well-muscled. Maybe a new recruit then, or even one of the Templars that she hadn’t met yet. Why hadn’t she met him yet? Why couldn’t she have met him when she _wasn’t_ acting like a fool? There were at least ten minutes every day when she didn’t, and it wasn’t fair that she hadn’t met this man during- wait, why did that matter?

Oh dear.

Oh for the love of Andraste, no.

She couldn’t find him attractive – she _couldn’t_. Attraction and all that it entailed had absolutely no place in her life. Not when that life was full of turmoil and danger, and was more likely than not to end in her death. No. She didn’t want this.  
Pulling her gaze away from the eyes that still laughed at her, she closed her mouth and swallowed hard. “You startled me.”

“You don’t sound very startled. You look it, mind you, but you don’t sound it.”

Thank the Maker for small mercies then. Alysia had been afraid that her voice would betray her; it never had before, but then this sort of thing had never happened before either. Even in the Circle, before everything changed, she hadn’t really noticed anyone’s looks. She was more interested in the mind of potential partners, and the brief feeling of connection that came from the hurried couplings. Physical attraction hadn’t been very high on her list of priorities, but she’d never seen _anyone_ like him.

“I didn’t know you had to sound startled to be startled. Thank you for the new knowledge.” Blast it, why had she said that? No one ever knew when she was joking, and what if he thought her an idiot who was actually thanking him? Why couldn’t she even manage a simple interaction without failing miserably?

“Here to help. Now, back to the original question: who are we looking for?” He seemed genuinely interested, still crouched before her with his elbows planted on his thighs; he looked like he could comfortably stay that way for hours. “I have to know before I can help you find… whoever it is.”

Alysia felt a blush rise to her cheeks as she shook her head, not even really sure how to answer the question. What could she say that wouldn’t sound ridiculous? ‘Just here sneaking a peek at my hero before he disavows me and takes away the Inquisition and Skyhold’ didn’t feel like an appropriate response. Really, no one was supposed to know Hawke was here anyway. “No one. Well, not no one. I was supposed to meet a friend. He’s very sneaky, and I’ve been trying to learn. I thought maybe I could be the one to sneak up on him.” This sounded so… so… by the Maker, she was a fool. “He’s not there now, though. I should go find him.”

“So you _are_ looking for him then.”

“Well if you’re going by facts and logic, then yes.”

He laughed, and the woman realized that she’d said the first thing that came to mind; she’d been doing it since they started talking. That was something she tried not to do, because the words of the Herald and now the Inquisitor needed to be as above reproach as possible. She always took a moment to decide what to say, because her words had consequences… but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he hadn’t even called her ‘Inquisitor’. Was he a new recruit? Did he not know?

Filled with hope that she could have this for just a few moments – a regular talk as herself – Alysia offered him a small, tentative smile. “I am looking for him. He’s…” How to describe Varric without describing _Varric_? “He’s short, and blonde. He has a very nice crossbow.” She added honestly. Bianca was a marvel, and if she were more of the rogue-type, she’d covet it endlessly.

Weapons now in her mind, she scanned him for his… and realized that she’d missed something terribly obvious in her earlier perusal of his person, too blinded by warm eyes and a stunning grin to see it. He had a staff mounted on his back; he wasn’t a warrior at all.

“You’re a mage.” 

“So kind of you to notice. Now, about our dwarven friend with a crossbow fetish.”

That was all it took for a sudden, horrible knowing to hit her. Maker’s breath, it was him. _This_ was Jarod Hawke, crouched right in front of her like he didn’t have a care in the world; it was Hawke that she was still sprawled on the stone walkway in front of, acting like an utter idiot. Embarrassment beyond the telling of it, she felt her face heat, and knew she was blushing intensely. “You’re Hawke.”

“Thank you for noticing again, I suppose. You were looking for Varric too then? I was supposed to meet him here half an hour ago to wait for you, but the Blighted nug-humper still hasn’t gotten here.”

“I don’t know that nug-humper is right. He’s more of a crossbow-licker.”

“Ha! Probably true, but he wouldn’t be insulted by that. Takes it as a point of pride, I think.” The man rose to his feet, arms stretching above his head a moment before he offered her a hand up. “Since I’m here to meet you, and you’re here to meet me, we can just get started without him.”

Alysia stared at his hand for long moments, trying to get this to all make sense in her head. The moment felt incredibly… surreal, and she was half-sure she was going to wake up from this dream any second now. This meeting was just so ridiculous, on several levels... and he was acting like nothing odd was going on at all. Hawke had not only seen her act like a fool, he'd also been attractive and she’d _noticed_ \- though on second thought, looking at him, he wasn’t that impressive. Not at all, really, so she needed to put those kinds of thoughts right out of her head. Immediately.

“Right. We can start without him.” Reaching up tentatively, she took hold of his hand and he pulled her to her feet with ease. Why did a mage have so many muscles? Most of the ones she knew were thin and reedy. Dorian had been the only exception until now, and even he wasn’t quite as muscular. Maker, she needed to stop noticing things like that! “I do wonder where he is though.”

Another one of those grins had her smiling back at him. She should be angry, maybe, that he’d startled her and not told her right away who he was, but… He hadn’t called her Inquisitor or Herald – or anything, really – and she liked that. She liked the lack of title immensely. What she liked less was that he’d seen her look like an idiot.

“I don’t usually startle so easily.”

“That’s… that’s good to know, I guess.” From his frown, the man didn’t know what she was talking about.

“I meant… earlier, I did, but only because-“

“Because you were trying to get a peek at me, I know.” He looked embarrassed more than anything, rubbing one finger over the bridge of his nose. “I… get that a lot, when people know I’m me. I’m used to the staring – the whispering is what gets me.”

“I don’t like either one. I’m sorry I stared.”

“You didn’t know I was me, so it’s fine.” The Blighted man had the nerve to wink at her, then let out a soft laugh, making her glare at him. “Easy – I was joking. I shouldn’t have crept up on you like that. I just couldn’t resist.”

“Since you could creep up on me because I was trying to creep up on you, I can forgive that.”

“I’m sure the first part of that sentence made sense, but I didn’t catch it. I do know that you’ve forgiven me, however, which is the important part. You can’t take it back now.”

“Why aren’t you making fun of me? I mean, you are, but…” Her cheeks heated again as she ducked her head, shoulders hunching up. “I was being so foolish – I didn’t mean for anyone to see that, but you did. Most people-“

“Most people haven’t had other people staring at them constantly. I have, and it isn’t fun. We all should be able to have our little foolish moments without being judged for them. I won’t make fun of you for them.” His serious look melted into a grin, amber eyes sparkling at her. “I might tease you mercilessly about other things, however. Is that alright, Lady Inquisitor?”

There was that blasted title… but from him, it wasn’t worshipful or full of expectation. In fact, there was a hint of humor in his voice when he said it, like he knew how ridiculous the whole thing was… and maybe he did. “I suppose I can’t stop you – you are the Champion of Kirkwall, after all.”

“Ah, I am at that. Inquisitor is more impressive though – and for that, you have my sympathies.”

Alysia couldn’t help but laugh at that, and _Maker_ it felt so good to laugh. All her fears of him deciding she wasn’t worthy of the title of Inquisitor evaporated, at least for the moment. He wasn’t going to try and head the Inquisition; he didn’t want the title or the responsibility that came with it. Really, from the utter lack of recent news about him… she thought all he wanted to do was disappear, and she couldn’t blame him.

“I’m sorry that you got dragged into this, Hawke.” She watched his eyes harden and his jaw clench, tension entering his body.

“No, I’m sorry for not killing him properly the first time. I should have had Fenris take the body and keep it his mansion with the others so we could check periodically. Corypheus is at least partly my responsibility; what information I have on him is yours. Varric tells me you’ve been trying to locate the Grey Wardens, and I might have a lead there as well. Which wonderfully unpleasant topic is your first choice?”

Grinning up at him, Alysia leaned back against the wall as she pretended to think carefully about the choice. Hawke wasn’t what she’d expected… but maybe that was alright. Maybe knowing him as a man instead of an abstract concept was better. Even if she’d made a fool of herself in front of him, she felt lighter inside than she had since walking out of the Fade. For that, she was grateful to Varric; he’d been the one to pull Hawke out of the shadows and into her world, where she _could_ get to know him. Even if this was the only time they talked and she never got to ask all of her questions… this was enough. It was enough to have him call her Inquisitor in that teasing way that invited her to share in the joke; it was enough to know that he understood. It was enough to know _him_.


	3. Watching Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric sometimes interferes with his friend's lives... but only for the good of the story, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was only supposed to be two chapters, but... then this happened.

Though the Inquisitor and the Champion of Kirkwall were in their own world, they were not completely alone. About a hundred paces away was a dwarf that was grinning broadly, a unique crossbow strapped to his back. At his side, crouched precariously on the edge of the wall was a blond man who wore a rather bemused expression.

“How do you know?”

“How do I know what, kid?”

“If it will actually help.” Cole’s head tipped down, the wide brim of his hat hiding his features. When he began to speak, his words gained speed and desperation as he went. “Weight of the world on me, sinking beneath their eyes and expectations with nowhere to go, make it stop make it stop make it-“

“Easy, kid. You don’t always have to go digging through people’s heads with a stick to help them.”

“I don’t use a _stick_ , Varric. That would be hurting, not helping. I just listen and help and then make them forget.”

“And sometimes, that’s great.” Noticing that his response seemed to agitate Cole, he laid a gloved hand on the spirit’s arm. “You do good work, kid. You help people – I’ve seen that. But I _can’t_ listen to people’s thoughts. When I help, it has to be different. It isn’t better, just different.” That seemed to calm the boy, so he nodded and looked back to the pair that they were spying on.

Such a harsh term, ‘spying on’. ‘Watching over’ was a lot better – when he told this story later, Varric was definitely using ‘watching over’.

“So how do you _know_? What if you’re wrong? Sometimes I can’t help the first time, so I take their knowing and try again. If this doesn’t help, what will you do? I don’t know if I can make them forget.”

“That’s the risk I take. Sometimes I try to help and it doesn’t go exactly according to plan. That’s life, after all.”

“So what do you do when the not knowing hinders the helping?”

“I take responsibility for any harm done and then move on. It’s all we can do, really.”

“Forgetting is better.”

“Sometimes, kid. Sometimes it’s… more complicated.” Dimples was glaring at Hawke, but there was more _life_ in her expression than he’d seen in weeks. Hawke wore the shit-eating grin he was known for, clearing enjoying his ability to bait the woman. Despite the grim subject they’d come together to discuss, the pair looked almost like they were having a good time. “I think this time, I got it right even if I couldn’t listen. They both need help – they’ll be good for each other.” Reaching over his shoulder, he lightly caressed his crossbow, smile almost wistful now. “Bianca thinks so too.”

“But how do you know?” the boy asked again, sounding frustrated now.

“I don’t.” Varric answered simply, shoulders lifting in an expressive shrug. “But I _do_ know him, and I know her. He needs someone sweet, and she needs someone-“

“Bitter? Twisted city turning everything black, evil crawling up the walls, I should have let it burn…”

“That’s… one way to put it. I was more going with her needing someone who can make her feel strong. Bitter works though. Knowing these things…”

“Bring them together to balance the scales… they look happy, how long will it take them to see?”

“Exactly, kid. Maybe I can’t help the way you do, but I can do this. I can bring them together, and they can decide if they want to stay that way.”

“… oh. I think I like the knowing better.”

“I’m sure you do, kid.”

While Cole cocked his head while he watched, seeming more confused than anything, Varric was still smiling. One hand fingering Bianca, he kept his eyes fixed on the couple that wasn’t exactly a couple yet. Hawke would kill him if he found out the secondary reason Varric had forced him to Skyhold; Dimples would blush and scold. Looking at them, however, the dwarf felt a surge of affection for both, mingled with hope for their future.

Together, they might make it; together they could keep from self-destructing. Even if no romantic feelings developed, though he’d be a nug’s uncle if they didn’t, the two would be good for each other. And Bianca did enjoy a love story; this would be one for the ages, he was sure.

So Varric would keep watching over the pair, taking notes of the story they were writing. And if, while he watched, they needed a little nudge… well. He wasn’t above helping the tale along.


End file.
